


What the Water Gave Me

by Rubyredhoodling



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hale Pack 2.0, Jackson works through his issues, Kanima Jackson Whittemore, M/M, Minor Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 00:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15919617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubyredhoodling/pseuds/Rubyredhoodling
Summary: “Wow, stealing a transport van out from under your daddy's nose is ballsy, but adding kidnapping on top of that?” Jackson whistles. “Two felonies is a bit excessive for a Wednesday night.”"It's Friday, Jackson." Stiles gives him an unimpressed look, tossing two smushed sandwiches he’d been holding back into his bag. “And we wouldn’t be in this situation if you listened to me.”“Excuse me? How is it my fault you’ve kidnapped me?”





	What the Water Gave Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allirica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allirica/gifts).



> This fic fought me every step of the way. Life, words, and technology just decided to punch me in the metaphorical dick. Lots of running into walls and sobbing at my keyboard. BUT IT'S DONE! I hope you find it entertaining! Jackson and Stiles really fun to write together. They're just two assholes who just want to be hugged. 
> 
> Thank you Mads for organizing this event and being so patient with me.
> 
> BansheeLydia, I hope you enjoy the fic!

Sound escapes his mouth in a flurry of bubbles as dark water pulls him under. He can see the broken shatters of the moon dance above his head, spreading further as his breath rises to the surface. A tendril of silk begins to slither up his leg, slowly getting wider and thicker as it coils itself around his torso. A final, misshapen bubble squeezes from his lungs as he’s quickly pulled under.  
  
The light fades.  
  
He sinks further down, the soft scales release him and the waters shift as something large rises above him. He should be terrified. He should be drowning. The most he can feel is a far-off panic that is quietly silenced with the stinging pressure of water in his ears.  
  
Drifting is easy in the deep.  
  
There are no worries here, no reason to perform, no fighting for attention, no rejection to endure, just the all-encompassing darkness. The longer he remains here the easier it is to accept that he no longer fits this body. It doesn’t matter that his skin feels too tight and paper thin, that any sudden movement could rip him open like a wet tissue. He doesn’t need it anymore, it’s being replaced by something thicker.  
  
Distant and distorted voices call out to him.  
  
He used to have a name once--it's difficult to remember. Sometimes he gets flashes of images: violent and primal things that are hard to understand, they make his gums itch and his tongue swell. His mouth tastes bitter, while his hands are hot and oil-slick. Foreign emotions burn in his veins and prickles under new leathery flesh. He vaguely recalls tasting hatred and jealousy but this is another level. There’s an intense and peculiar spike of fear that makes his heart stutter but makes no sense. How could water be terrifying when it nurtures and protects him?  
  
There is a change in current and suddenly he’s rising again.  
  
The figure shifts past him, sinking into the depths. The darkness ebbs and curls back. His limbs tingle and twitch as old skin knits over new, hiding what he is, what he’s becoming.  The surface gets brighter and brighter--and brighter.  
  
A chill of air stings against his lungs.  
  
Jackson feels light-headed and raw. The ringing pressure in his ears combined with the shock of light is dizzying. He squints, trying to adjust to his surroundings. The walls are metallic and he can’t move his limbs.  
  
Someone is yelling, loud and persistent, forcing one of his ears pop. The words are still gibberish but the pressure in his head is now manageable. It takes a moment to pull his eyes away from the overhead light. For some reason, it feels like he hasn’t seen something this bright in ages. Jackson shifts and a strained clink draws his attention to the restraints around his hands and feet. The last haze of sleep vanishes as a wave of irritation and humiliation burns in his chest.  
  
Jackson glances up and is met with a familiar buzzcut and sarcastic smile. He looks pale against the stark metallic walls and is wearing more layers than normal--not that Jackson makes a point of looking at Stiles Stilinski. On top of his customary flannels, he has two hoodies, both tacky, oversized and clashing in color and pattern.    
  
He’s a walking fashion crime--speaking of which.  
  
“Wow, stealing a transport van out from under your daddy's nose is ballsy, but adding kidnapping on top of that?” Jackson questions haughtily. “Two felonies is a bit excessive for a Wednesday night, don't you think?”  
  
"It's Friday, Jackson." Stiles replies blandly, tossing two smushed sandwiches he’d be holding back into his bag. “And we wouldn’t be in this situation if you listened to me.”  
  
“Excuse me? How is it my fault you’ve kidnapped me?” The cuffs strain as Jackson struggles to crowd into Stiles’ space. He doesn't get very far before a threatening finger nearly collides with his nose.  
  
“I’ve been trying to warn you for weeks, so don’t act so surprised that I’ve doubled my efforts!”  
  
Jackson opens his mouth, gearing up for a fight, but the ringing in his ear gets louder muffling all other sounds. Stiles doesn’t seem to notice, his nonchalance quickly churning into a storm of emotions. The boy is like a livewire, impassioned and expressive. His hands flail, dancing along to unheard words, his lips curl slipping between threatening and caustic remarks. The light catches in the depths eyes strangely, almost making them glow. Jackson has a hard time focusing against the onslaught and does his best to endure.  
  
Eventually, Stilinski's tirade comes to an end with a rough palm over his head and a heavy sigh. His fiery indignation dissipates, leaving only exhaustion and frustration in its wake.  
  
“Something is wrong with you, Jax.”  
  
The sudden switch from feverish lecturing to tempered concern is jarring. Yet, the sincerity in his face is genuine, no hidden barbs or devious plans,. It makes Jackson feel seven again, untethered by the knowledge that his parents aren’t his real parents, hiding under the jungle gym with his best friend. He remembers the sticky heat of Stiles’ hand, how fingers his went numb but he kept squeezing anyways. Stiles gave him this look back then and it’s bizarre to see it on the face Jackson has grown accustomed to sneering at--it’s oddly comforting.  
But he doesn’t want it.  
  
They’re not children anymore and they’ve hurt each other far too much over the years to mend things now, simply because his body no longer feels right and he’s lost so many days he can’t figure out a number. So what if he’s fucking terrified? It’s no one’s problem. He’s been dealing with his own shit for years and he’s not going to make the same mistake of letting someone in just so they can abandon him.  
  
“Really, you’re gonna pull this Dr. Phil bullshit after you chained me up?” Jackson says incredulously.  
  
“Are you seriously going to sit here and tell me you’re fine?”  
  
“The only thing I’m going to sit here and do is wait for your father to show up so I can put a restraining order on your psycho ass!" Jackson snarls. "Tell me, Stiles, how many points do you think you'll cost deputy dad in the polls come re-election time? Five, ten, no I think we can make it to a solid twenty."  
  
The open concern on Stiles’ face immediately blinks out. He straightens, body going completely silent as he slips to the edge of the seat. Jackson feels the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand as the temperature in the van plummets.  
  
“Do you really want to fuck with me, Whittemore?” The sudden drop in Stiles' voice sparks a blush of fear and something else in Jackson's chest. “You can try to humiliate and slander me all you want, but you screw my dad over and I swear I’ll turn that back on you tenfold. I’m not the same naive kid from middle school. I swear to god, I’ll bury you.”  
  
He means every word.  
  
They’ve been in fights before, shared: split lips, broken noses, bruised egos but this feels entirely new and dangerous. An involuntary shiver zips up his spine, Jackson can’t help but wonder if Stiles has been letting him take potshots all these years, just biding time until graduation.  
  
“You’re goddamn unstable.” Jackson murmurs.  
  
“Yeah, well it’s genetic.” Stiles grumbles, shrugging off the tension and easing out of Jackson’s personal space. “You can hate me and my methods all you want, Jackson, but I'm trying to help you.”  
  
“Clearly.” Jackson lifts his cuffed hands and shakes them for good measure. He still feels unsettled but falling back into their normal roles is easier than trying to understand what the fuck just happened.  
  
“Oh my god, Will you stop being a big baby about it already? I doubt this is the first time you’ve been put in handcuffs.”  
  
“Different kind of situation, unless...this is some elaborate fantasy of yours?” Jackson knows his tone sounds off, too over the top but he curls his lips into a smirk anyway. “You gonna get on your knees and blow me, Stilinski?”  
  
“Like you could last longer than two seconds against a tongue lashing from me.” Stiles rolls his eyes, folding his arms impatiently. “We can trade barbs all night, Whittemore, or you can actually take this seriously.”  
  
“I'm not punching your face in, what more do you want from me?”  
  
“I want you to tell me that you’ve been losing time. That you’re finding strange stains and holes in your clothing and you’re waking up in places with no idea how you got there. I’ve seen you come to school looking haunted and run down. So trust me, you're not hiding this as well as you think. The only one you’re lying to is yourself.”  
  
Jackson flinches back at the sudden exposure, he tugs against the restrains once more as he rushes forward, anger crackling in his throat. “What the fuck would you know, Stilinski? You think just because you see me in the halls and we share some classes, you know me? What a joke! You know nothing about me.”  
  
Stiles sighs dismissively. "Just because you’re a bigger shit now, doesn’t mean you're complex. I can still read you like I did when we were on the playground.”  
  
“Bullshit.”  
  
He leans back, lazily gesturing towards Jackson and casually starts to dissect.  
  
“Your nails are uncharacteristically ragged like you’ve been biting them down. At least twice last week, your shirt has been inside out. No one said anything because you’ve been particularly snappish--even towards Danny. Which, while you're a dickhole to everyone else you've always been good to Danny. You've got bags under your eyes that you've been hiding with concealer. You've been ditching class more, including practice--which doesn't make any sense because you're still paranoid about Scotty completely taking over your spot on the team. You've gained muscle mass but you're lethargic when you do show up to practice. It's like you've been running laps all night instead of sleeping because you have been--only you’re not running backstops and drills you’re hunting people. Should I go on?”  
  
Jackson wants to scream.  
  
It's impossible for Stiles to know any of this.  They share classes, shove each other in the halls and endure long bus rides to away games, nothing substantial. They don’t spend time together outside of forced interactions. Jackson hasn't spared a single thought on Stiles other than how to prank him in years, yet somehow Stiles can write a six-page essay on his behavior changes. He hates it. He wants to crawl in a hole and pretend the perfect mask he’s spent a lifetime creating is still intact and deny everything else.  
  
But he’s so tired of hiding.  
  
"How the hell do you know all that?" He mumbles in disbelief. "The last time we hung out, you were missing a front tooth."  
  
"Side-effect of being a cop's kid, I'm naturally observant."  
  
"I don't think that has anything to do with it.”  
  
"Hey now, we're talking about you, not me."  
  
"Yeah, whatever."  
  
Jackson fiddles with the chain between his wrists and Stiles shifts his feet awkwardly. He clearly expected a rush of rage rather than cooperation and Jackson can't help the hint of satisfaction for catching his captor off-guard.  
  
"I think I'm missing a week. I can't remember anything after our game against East Oak." Jackson admits, shutting his eyes to see if any other memories rise to the surface. "I get moments where I'm present but not really. Sometimes I wind up in places with no recollection of how I got there. More than once, I've caught myself mid-fight with Lydia and had no idea what we were yelling about or why I'm so angry."  
  
"That last one isn't really new, you guys fight all the time about stupid shit.”  
  
Jackson huffs in agreement. “Yeah, but we always resolve it, storm off for a bit and come back to talk it out. This is different. I’m just irrationally mad at her all the time now. Sometimes, I catch her staring at me like I'm a stranger and I don't blame her, because that's exactly how I feel."  
  
"So you are aware that you're not yourself." Stiles hums, his expression goes grim. “Do you notice anything before you go under like a tingling sensation or a particular smell?”  
  
“Not really, things get a little hazy sometimes but more often I can’t tell when I slip and I can’t remember anything when I’m under.” Jackson laughs bitterly, glancing over his hands. “Figures I’d get the shit end the supernatural lottery. Lydia is back to normal, Scott is a lacrosse cinderella story. And what do I get? A mountain of bullshit with powers to show for it.”  
  
"Hey don't knock yourself, buddy. You’ve got plenty supernatural mojo: scales, tail, paralytic venom--you don’t know it but you’re sitting pretty at the top of the monster food chain.” Stiles nudges their feet together.  
  
“I’m always pretty.” He grumbles automatically and instantly feels stupid.  
  
“Yeah, you are.”  
  
Jackson gives him a half-hearted glare but it only makes Stiles’ eyebrows waggle faster. Despite feeling vulnerable, sharing his burden with Stilinski is oddly freeing. He doesn't offer any pity or flowery words but somehow provides levity and solace regardless. He's still no closer to figuring out what is happening or how to stop it and Stiles isn't going to let him go home anytime soon, but Jackson is okay with that. If he really is hurting people, sitting in the back of a van with his ex-best friend is a small price to pay.  
  
“Look, I know this isn’t ideal.” Stiles gestures around them. “But kidnapping you was just one part of a long list of possible plans. If this doesn't work, you know I'm not going to give up. Once Derek and Scott--”  
  
The names of outsiders makes Jackson's lips curl. “You want me to trust the raging asshole who constantly threatened and stalked me and that moppy headed idiot? Might as well kill me now.”  
  
“That’s what I said. But apparently, some people want you to live. So you’re gonna have to suck it up. Think of this as a supernatural group project, only the assignment if figuring out how to stop you from killing peo--okay bad analogy! Just be thankful I brought some stakeout snacks.” Stiles rummages through his backpack and pulls out a large bag of frosted animal crackers.  
  
"What are we five?"  
  
"It's a classic!" He says offendedly. "Who doesn't love frosted dubiously shaped animals with sprinkles?"  
  
“And how exactly am I supposed to eat them without my hands.”  
  
"I'm going to feed you, silly." He flutters his eyes coquettishly.  
  
“The fuck you will.” Jackson feels heat rise along the back of his neck at the feigned flirtation.  
  
A pink misshapen elephant smacks him between the eyes and bounces into his lap.  
  
“C’mon you can do better! Open wide, pretty boy.” Stiles taunts.  
  
“You’re such an asshole…”  
  
The white lion blob hits high on his forehead but he catches the next one and crunches down on it threateningly. Stiles lets out a satisfied whoop and Jackson rolls his eyes. They get through four more frosted animals before his gums begin to itch. He slumps back against the wall and tilts his head back, everything from his neck down is starting to numb.  
  
“Jax...Jackson, are you okay? Wait, hey no--Scott? Scotty!?  
  
The voice sounds far away. The metal cuffs strain and snap, an inhuman screeching vibrates through his bones before the cool embrace of water slides over him. The light in the van slowly breaks apart on the surface and he begins to sink.  
  
\--  
  
The deep is different this time.  
  
No longer comforting and familiar, this place is arctic and unknown. He no longer fears the water that surrounds him but time--or more specifically the lack of it. His skin is changing again, crystallizing and growing into something new. The flashes behind his eyes are more violent, efficient and disturbingly satisfying.  
  
The water swirls violently.  
  
His cocoon shatters and sloughs off, taking thick strips of scales and crystal. A familiar shadow passes by sinking like a stone, tail limply drifting in the wild currents. His limbs tingle as the leather protective flesh continues to peel, revealing a new warmer layer underneath, similar to his old skin but more.  
  
Bubbles dance and burst against him as his body quickly rises from the deep. The surface is a wild cluster of light and color, the closer he gets the harder it is to look at. He can hear muffled shouting over the blinding pain of his shifting muscles and bone.  
  
His first breath is an explosion of thorns, accompanied by a harsh silver light.  
  
“Jackson!”  
  
Copper floods his mouth, spilling over his tongue like a river. There are hands inside of his body, fingers brushing against each other from opposite sites, slicing through his organs and slamming up against bone. Jackson’s next breath is a wet one. There’s a beating in his head that matches the rhythm of his heart. It grows louder as the last vestige of the kanima evaporates. Blood is collecting in a growing puddle under his back, but he doesn’t feel cold or faint--or alone.  
When darkness shrouds his eyes, it’s not the water that envelops him.  
  
Coarse fur brushes against the curve of his palm, followed by a cold nose and hot tongue. The creature curls around his legs, nipping playfully at Jackson’s fingers, tail wagging excitedly. The wolf is young, sleek and gray with eyes that remind him of clear water. He should be afraid--instead, he feels whole. Jackson reaches out and treads his fingers through the wolf's soft ruff. The beast lets out a low, pleasant rumble that ripples through his bones.  
  
Jackson awakens safely tangled in familiar arms.  
  
Lydia is small and soft against him, her flowery perfume and warm hands are a soothing welcome home. Jackson buries his nose into her red hair and pulls her closer. She sobs against him and he thinks he might be crying too. Everything is overwhelming--too big and bright to be real.  
  
He can hear conversations around him, hushed troubled tones with peaks of outrage. He smells his own blood, gunpowder and something entirely rotten and wrong. Beyond the assault of noise is a clear, rapid heartbeat. Jackson glances up, trying to identify the source of the sound and immediately hones in on Stiles' bruised face. He looks gaunt and beaten. His cheeks are wet and stained with color. Their eyes catch and Stiles licks the fallen moisture from the corner of his mouth and nods awkwardly at Jackson. Slowly, he backs away from the group and vanishes into the shadows of the warehouse too quickly for Jackson call out to him.  
  
\--  
  
He can’t sleep.  
  
It’s a little past midnight and Lydia is snoring softly by the window. She’s been a permanent fixture at his side but not in the way either of them is used to. There are a series of issues that need to be addressed between them, but it’s a conversation they’re willing to ignore for now--both too raw to do anything but cling to one another. It's only been forty-eight since Jackson died on a lacrosse field and took his first breath as a werewolf. Nothing feels real. His entire universe is experiencing a hard reboot. All his aspirations and desires seems so trivial now.  
  
He slips out of bed and heads down to the kitchen. No amount of warm milk or herbal tea can settle his mind but the ritual of making it is soothing.  
  
The light in the den is on and he can hear movement. Quietly, he peaks into the room and finds his parents huddled together on the couch, a large leather bound album between them. Slowly, they turn the page and his mother brushes her eyes as she points at a particular photo. His father grimaces bittersweetly, pulling her closer to him as the linger on the pages.  
  
He feels like a ghost watching his parents from the beyond, it feels voyeuristic and wrong to see them so vulnerable, and yet it's reassuring to know they care.  
  
Jackson used to hate the den, their ‘family’ room. The walls are lined with accolades for his parents, but the majority is dedicated to Jackson. His first tooth is encased in a tiny glass star on a shelf next to his second-grade spelling bee award and his middle school lacrosse trophy. His first ‘drawing’ from pre-k is framed beside his field day ribbons and summer camp photos. There’s a collection of leather-bound albums full of awkward elementary school photos, family trips, and holidays. Jackson found this chronicling embarrassing, his friends used to tease him, now he knows this parental pride is genuine.  
  
"Mom, Dad?" He hedges in front of the couch, startling both of them.  
  
"Oh! Jackie, we didn't see you there." Mom quickly sets the photobook aside, pushing away fresh tears. "Is everything okay, sweetie?"  
  
"D-Did you need something, son?" Dad clears his throat a few times.  
  
The expectant looks on their faces make Jackson’s mouth suddenly dry. He’s been avoiding this moment since he stumbled up the driveway with Lydia clutching at his side. It’s not easy to explain what’s really been happening--even if he gives the mundane version. How's he supposed to tell them he's not a victim, he’s the murder weapon.  
  
He clenches his hands and opens his mouth but no sound comes out.  
“Jackson?” she asks softly.  
  
“I didn’t understand.” Jackson says abruptly, then cringes and shakes his head, that’s not where he wants to start. He takes a shaky breath, focuses on the rug and tries again.  
  
“I was angry when I found out I was adopted.” He can feel both his parents flinch guiltily and he takes another breath to steady himself. “Everything felt like a lie. Sometimes I’d forget. It was easier when I was little, but it was always there in the back of my mind. Every time you told me I was special, that you loved me--I couldn’t believe it because if I was so special and loved, why did they leave me? What was wrong with me that they didn’t want me? Then I overheard you and Dad talking about sending me off to boarding school. I knew then this arrangement wasn’t set in stone. I had to be good, better or I’d lose you too.”  
  
His mother tries to interrupt but he can’t stop.  
  
“So, I pushed harder, because if was the golden boy everyone loved, you’d have to keep me. Everyone loves trophies, right? I found being in the spotlight addicting but fleeting and when I came down, I took everyone with me. I’m not…”Jackson clenches his jaw, struggling to hold back a whine. His vision is blurry and his hands are shaking. “I’ve done terrible things to get what I want. I’ve used people, I’ve hurt so many people…I’m no good anymore…I don't deserve...”  
  
"Don't you say that. Don't you ever--" His father's hands grip his shoulder roughly. "You're alive, Jax. Everything else is fixable because you're here."  
  
"You're our entire world, Jackie." Mom runs a shaky hand through his hair, tears dripping down her chin. "We love you."  
  
His knees give out under the rush of affection that floods through him. They collapse into a heap on the floor, crying. His father crowds against his chest and his mother against his back. There’s a howling in his head, a commiserating mournful sound that echoes his sobbing. It feels like something has broken inside him and for once it doesn’t feel like a bad thing.  
  
\--  
  
There's a service to honor the fallen deputies from the station's massacre. It feels sacrilegious to attend when he is the reason they're gone, but his father is speaking. Jackson knows his parents would understand if he wanted to stay home, however, he feels obligated to face the families--even if indirectly.

There’s a long list of deaths he’s technically responsible for. His memories are hazy and nebulous, a series of murky clips and intense emotions. Matt felt straightforward and angry. He fixated on his grudges, wanted to make a small group suffer as much as possible--while Gerard just wanted to eliminate everything. The man's ravenous need to consume and burn life was unparalleled to anything Jackson ever experienced, it made Matt’s rage seem childish in comparison.

He dresses and undresses a total of four times, pacing around nervously in his boxers until he can psych himself up to step back into his suit. At this point, he's not even sure what's more terrifying: seeing Stiles again or sharing a room with the victim's unsuspecting loved ones.

Lydia watches him warily, occasionally repeating some variation of: "You don't have to do this if you're not ready. It's not your fault, Jackson. Matt killed those people, not you."

Maybe one day he'll believe those words until then they catch in his throat bitterly.

\--

Jackson expects to see Stiles sitting towards the front with the rest of the families, instead he's towards the back a few rows across from them. He's wearing the same ill-fitting suit from the school dance. Somehow, it looks even worse, like his shoulders have filled out but he's still too thin and swims in the fabric. His split lip is healed and his dark bruises have receded into a sickly green. Stiles expression flickers between carefully blank and a pained grimace.

His wolf whines sympathetically, much to his humiliation. Lydia places her hand over his knee and presses against his side, reassuringly.

Jackson has never attended this sort of service before. It's stunning to see the crisply starched uniforms mingled with civilian mourning attire.

Mayor Liona Kim gets up to say a few words and is then followed by a long line of important city officials--his father included. The low simmer of emotion sharpens to attention as Sheriff Stilinski takes the podium. He looks different in his full uniform, almost regal. Large photos of his deputies flank behind him, adorned with silk ribbon and white flowers. A black band is stretched across the badge on his chest, gleaming under the lights. The Sheriff works through a series of frowns before he grips the sides of the podium and starts to speak.

Jackson's eyes are immediately drawn to Stiles, who cringes as each name is read and tries to casually rub the moisture from his face. The edginess Jackson managed to keep restrained, unfurls.

The moment the Sheriff steps aside to allow friend and family to speak on behalf of the fallen, Jackson slips into the aisle and heads for the exit. Curious eyes track his departure but he ignores their stares and continues to flee. He pushes past the reception in the lobby and out into the courtyard.

"Jackson?" Lydia follows him out but he's already vanished through the rose hedges.

He doesn't slow his stride, making quick work of the garden path. Decorative cobblestones turn into bleach concrete and finally gives way to soft grass. Jackson stumbles through the manicured treeline, almost possessed with a need to get as far away from funeral as possible.

The sound of his name is lost to the loud crunch of dead leaves and dried twigs snapping under his feet. The ground softens into mud, breaking his pace, causing him to lose balance and stumble against a reedy tree. He feels disconnected, yet focused. The wolf remains placid and steady, gently urging them forward. He slips a few more times, cutting his palms open and scuffing his knee against a patch of climbing mushrooms before the slope levels into an embankment surrounding a fast-moving stream.

His heart thuds heavily in his ears as he stares at the cascading water and starts to calm. The water is clear like glass, making the worn stones at the bottom shimmer. The air is crisp and smells wet and clean, so vastly different from the cloying anxiety and sorrow of the funeral home. Jackson takes a few deep breaths, erasing the lingering tang of emotion and embraces his wolf's calm.

\--

The cacophonous hum of bagpipes startles some birds from the canopy and shakes Jackson out of his relaxed trance. According to the crumpled program in his pocket, this should be the end of service. Jackson slips off his boulder and dusts the dried mud from his clothing. He cringes at the mess and knows there’s bound to be talk when he shambles out of the trees for half the town to see.

There’s a shuffling in the distance as unkempt shrubs and undergrowth give way to a sullen Stiles. His oversized suit shirt is untucked from his dress pants and his hands are roughly working on the knot of his tie.

The wolf perks up at the approaching scent.

"So this is where you ran off to. Can't say I blame you, I hate funerals too." He says bitterly. The bagpipes make a particularly shrill attempt and Stiles' lips tug into a wan smile. "Uncle Will absolutely hated the bagpipes. When Mom was still alive he and Dad used to prank each other by playing ridiculous bagpipe covers at the most inopportune time. Once, Uncle Will paid some guy to play on our lawn in the middle of the night. Mom chucked a shoe out the window." He chuckles. "I think he would have appreciated this."

Jackson mirrors his smile and strains to make out the melody. "I honestly have no idea what this song is."

"Okay, heathen." Stiles says in feigned outrage. "This is clearly the finest rendition of Journey's 'Don't Stop Believing.'"

"Clearly."

They take a few moments to bask in the deflating cover song before Stiles hesitantly turns towards him.

"I'm not really sure where we stand or anything...but you think we can table whatever for a hug?”

"Y-yeah, it's fine." Jackson's face heats the question.

Jackson is expecting an awkward squeeze or a quick bro hug but Stiles latches onto him like a man drowning. The initial shock gradually fades as he melts into the embrace, the lingering whispers of tension and apprehension slides off his body. Stiles sniffs loudly and presses them impossibly tighter together. He can smell the salt from new tears, the hint of his father’s aftershave, and cheap body wash. The longer they hold together the more complex the scent becomes. Under the haze of sorrow Jackson can detect new smells: other wolves and spiced sugar. Surprisingly, the wolf is happy to luxuriate in the combination.

By the time Stiles pulls away Jackson feels entirely boneless.

"Thanks."

"Yeah, of course." Jackson sways forward a little, following Stiles’ body heat.

"You should come by." Stiles’ lips tug into a smirk as he glances over Jackson’s face in contemplation.

"What?"

“The Preserve. We run the trails every morning, might be good if you’re bored.” Stiles tucks his hands into his pockets. Jackson isn't sure what his face does but makes Stiles snort. "Just something to think about. I get Derek isn't your favorite, but with everything that's happened, it's put a lot of things into perspective. He's not the massive dickbag you remember. He's still gruff and stubborn but better. He's actually teaching the betas instead of breaking bones."

"Gee, what a novel idea."

"Says the dude who did zero research before bullying his way into the supernatural."

He feels his ears burn with embarrassment.

“Look, I know it’s hard to let things go. I mean, we’ve been holding onto a grudge since grade school. But there are more important things in this world then pride and you shouldn’t have to carry the burden alone." Stiles implores. "I'm not saying it's easy, but if you're willing to clear the slate, I think it might be good for you."

"I don't know, Stiles..."

"Don't make up your mind now." He says starting to retreat in the direction he came in. "Come for a run or if you want to get your paws wet, we're having a pack night at my place next week."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Take care of yourself, Jax. Wolves aren’t the only creatures that don’t do well alone."

 

\--

Three days after the memorial, he and Lydia break up.

It's a mutual and amicable break--something unheard of in their previous attempts. In the wake of his resurrection and recovery, they find their affection is nowhere near the cosmic fairytale, bring your boyfriend back from the dead, kind of love. That while they care about one another, neither of them want to fall back into their old routine. They’re not the same people anymore.

They part as friends and Lydia takes Allison up on her offer to spend the summer in France. It's tempting to follow her example, as his father has offered to fly him to London to spend time with his aunt, to get away and clear his head. But leaving now wouldn't feel like a vacation--it'd be running and he’s done with that.

\--

It doesn’t take long before Jackson starts to feel restless in his self-imposed exile, with Lydia out of the country and Danny in Hawaii, Stiles' invitation seems more and more appealing.

He tries to avoid it, makes regular drives up the coast, walks on the beach and melts in with the tourists. While these day trips help, they can’t fulfill the need to join the others. He finds himself giving in gradually, sometimes taking the long way home to circle the preserve. Occasionally, he’ll spot a familiar blue Jeep among the trees but he never detours off the main road.

A few days before the weekend he gets a text message from an unknown number.

‘Movie night, Friday. Bring your claws and your paws to Casa de Stilinski.’

\--

Surprisingly, he remembers how to get to the Stilinski house without having to GPS. There was a time he used to ride up and down these streets every summer and take the backroads down into the empty field near 4th Street to look for bugs. The field is now a Starbucks and a gas station, but the rest of the neighborhood remains unchanged. 

The driveway is packed, Scott's dirt bike is parked behind the Jeep, accompanied by a ‘98 champaign Camry. Derek's imposing Camaro takes up the curb directly in front of the house, leaving Jackson to park across the street. 

Humiliatingly, it takes a full minute and multiple internal conversations before he’s able to exit his car and walk up the front steps. The lawn is a little dead and the paint on the front porch is chipping but he feels a twinge of nostalgia as he spies his and Stiles’ initials on the baseboards.

Even without enhanced hearing, the voices carry out into the street--friendly bickering and laughter over the boisterous sounds of Indiana Jones.

The door is yanked open before Jackson has a chance to lift his hand to knock. Erica Reyes greets him with a wide grin, her blonde hair is tied in a messy braid and she’s wearing a pair of sweatpants. She looks healthy and relaxed.

"We were wondering when you were gonna come in." She grins, tugging him inside. "You're just in time, Boyd made cookies!"

The smell of chocolate and contentment slips over him, loosening the tightness in his chest. Boyd walks by with a freshly plated batch of palm sized cookies and Erica plucks two from the top, cramming one past his lips before doing the same to herself. 

“Isn’t it good?” she muffles around a mouthful of food. “He made them from scratch!”

It’s surprisingly good, with a nice rise and a soft center. Jackson nods in agreement and Boyd quitely preens, hiding his smile in a kiss against Erica’s forehead. 

“You better take another one now or she’ll eat them all by herself.” He suggests holding the plate. 

“Don’t try to shame me, Vernon.” She warns playfully, snatching the plate before Jackson can make a grab for another. 

“Menace.” Boyd mutters fondly. He claps Jackson’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you.” 

Jackson finishes off the rest of his cookie and follows Boyd into the epicenter of noise.

The Stilinski living room looks mostly like Jackson remembers. The walls are filled with clusters of mismatched frames, landscape painting, military accommodations, and a weird collection of mounted fish. The colorful and bizarre printed furniture is gone, replaced by a navy neutral set. 

Erica has completely taken over the couch with her plate of cookies. There’s a small pile of pillows propped against the corner, no doubt waiting for Boyd so the pair of them can sprawl against each other while they watch. 

Derek is sitting in the Sheriff’s recliner. It’s nicer than the previous one he had and smells of a decent quality vegan leather. He looks up from his conversation with Isaac, who is on the floor leaning against a bookshelf, and gives Jackson a small smile and nod. It’s already the nicest encounter they’ve ever had. 

Scott is hanging off the edge of the loveseat, trying to mentally escape his body. Stiles is beside him, a half-filled popcorn bowl in his lap, hands gesturing between the movie and Scott. 

"I just can't understand it. We grew up together, how have you not seen any of these movies? These aren't even the deep cuts, Scotty. Everyone's seen at least  _ one  _ Indiana Jones movie. Is it a Harrison Ford thing? What do you got against Hollywood's grumpiest leading man?"

"It's not that big of a deal! I just never had any interest in watching these movies, there's so many of them and they feel so long."

Stiles nearly chokes on a kernel. "How. Wh-Dude, you watched Fast and the Furious series religiously for an entire summer." 

"Yeah! Those are great movies: fast cars, double agents, explosions."

Stiles gestures to the TV and Scott sighs. "It's not the same at all." 

"I don't even know what to do with you." Stiles shakes his head in disappointment. "Hey, Jackson! Indiana Jones is an essential classic, is it not?"

"For the exception of Crystal Skull." He says coolly. Scott blinks up at him, surprised and suspicious at his appearance. 

"See, Scott. Essential classic." Stiles' face lights up, his tone immediately smug.

"Fine, it's a classic and I'm horrible for never caring about seeing it." 

"And for hating Harrison Ford." Stiles amends. He squishes closer to Scott and pats the small gap in the corner. "Here, Jax you can sit next to me." 

"Dude, there's not enough room!"

"You should be glad I'm not making you sit on the floor, heathen." Stiles dismisses. 

Scott rolls his eyes and shifts tighter against the arm of the loveseat to give Jackson another inch of space. A childish part of him feels vindicated to have Stiles accommodate him. Scott shoots a few questioning glares at Jackson behind Stiles’ head but doesn’t say anything. Jackson has to stretch his arm over the back of the seat and let the other hang over the side just so they have room to breathe. 

Despite being uncomfortably wedged into the corner with Stiles spilling popcorn onto his lap and Scott picking apart the special effects, Jackson can’t deny how homey this feels.

\--

Jackson flutters his eyes open and finds himself sitting in alone and a dark living room. A knitted blanket is draped over him and his shoes are missing. TV is off and the empty snack bowls and cups have been cleared from coffee table. He squints at the clock on the dvd player and finds that it’s only eleven. 

“Thanks for having us over, Batman. Maybe the next time we do this, it’ll be in the new and improved Hale house.” Erica says quietly, stepping into her shoes.

“Let’s hope so.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want us to stay and clean up?” Boyd asks skeptically. 

“Nah, it’s fine. You guys should get back before curfew.”

The front door closes around chorus of goodbyes. Stiles steps back through the hall and heads into the kitchen. Jackson stretches and curls into a sit. He must have passed out midway through Last Crusade. He feels slightly groggy but well rested. Bracing himself on the arm of the loveseat, he slowly shuffles after Stiles. 

“Hey sleepy head.” He says, rinsing dishes and maneuvering them into the dishwasher. “You missed all the fun and by that I mean, Boyd has never seen The Mummy. Can you believe that? Scott, I’ve come to expect this from but my beautiful Boyd? It’s such a travesty!”

“I blame the school system.” Jackson yawns, leaning against the counter. “Do you need me to help with anything?” 

“Just hold up that wall and keep me company.” Stiles waves him off. 

He feels weird just watching him clean but is quickly drawn into conversation as Stiles begins to tell him about Derek’s plans for the house. Jackson is only half-listening getting distracted by the sudden realization that he can actually see Stiles’ torso. No hoodie, no flannel, just one tight fitting shirt and a dark pair of sweatpants. 

“You with me, Jax?”

He shakes his head and clears his throat. “Uh, what?” 

“I said: what’s the verdict? Was pack movie night a success? You seemed comfortable enough to sleep.” 

Stiles smirks knowingly at him. He looks--good. The bruising on his face is entirely gone and his skin is taking on a bit of a tan. His shoulder seem a little broader and there’s definitely more definition than he’s ever had during his time on the sidelines. Jackson presses his nails into his palm, trying to use the pressure to snap himself out of whatever this is.

“It was alright.” Jackson shrugs. 

“You’re so full of shit.” Stiles shakes his head, drying his hands off. 

As he slowly drags his fingers through the dish towel, clearly contemplating something, his demeanor changes. Jackson can feel a strange heaviness in the space between them. Stiles steps closer, warm eyes roaming over Jackson’s face and landing back on his mouth. He feels his neck flush with heat and his pulse begin to quicken. 

“Are you okay, Jax?" His voice takes on a low rumble. “You know, if you’re feeling too tired to drive, you can stay the night if you’d like.”

"What?" Jackson watches Stiles’ tongue wet his lips and mirrors the action. 

“Yes or no, Jax?” He leans forward, his words brushing against Jackson’s cheeks. 

“Yeah.” 

The kiss is surprisingly gentle. Jackson expected Stiles to crash into his mouth, all fumbling exuberance and inexperience, but he takes his time coaxing Jackson’s lips to open. The taste of salt and artificial butter eventually melts into something clean and sweet. The rough pads of his fingers slide against Jackson’s cheekbones and drift over the column of his neck, while Stiles’ other hand plays with the hem of his shirt. 

Jackson is accustomed to being the one in charge, but he should have known Stiles would be different. The way he talks, the frenetic way he moves, he commands, pushes. Why would this be any different?

He stumbles back against the kitchen wall, hands clutching against Stiles’ chest. The languid tenderness of the kiss breaks into something hungry. Stiles’ hand begins to glide under his shirt, leaving a trail of heat along his stomach and rib cage. This thumb begins to trace a lazy circle around his nipple, making Jackson jolt forward and gasp. 

“You like that, Jax?” Teeth tease the outer shell of his ear. “You gonna make some more sounds for me, pretty boy?” He pinches and Jackson makes the most embarrassing noise. 

Stiles hums in satisfaction nips at the lobe of his ear and starts to mouth along his neck. Both hands slide their way down to the hem of his jeans. He feels dizzy and new. Every touch, every bite, every breathless sigh against his jawline is a revelation. It makes no sense. He’s done so much more with Lydia, but this is different. It feels like Stiles is cracking him open from the inside and all he can do is try not to vibrate out of his skin.  

The harsh sound of keys hitting the title counter instantly startles the boys apart. Jackson his half hard and Stiles isn't far behind him. He feels his entire body flush under the cold scrutiny of Sheriff Stilinski. 

"Hello, Jackson."

"S-sir."  He tries to adjust himself discreetly. 

"Heeeyyy, Dad." Stiles winces. "You're home early." 

"Uhuh. Parrish thought it might be nice if I was able to have a late dinner with my son. Hear how his little pack building event went." He folds his arms. "I'm guessing it was pretty successful seeing as you two have buried the hatchet."

"We were about to bury some other things before you showed up." He mutters.

"Stiles!" Jackson pales.

The Sheriff sighs and turns to open the fridge. "Say goodnight, Stiles." 

“G-goodnight, sir.”

“Mhmm.” 

Stiles nudges Jackson forward around the kitchen island and into the front hall. He finds his missing shoes by the door and quickly shoves them on his feet. Stiles struggles with the doorknob for a second and they both tumble onto the front porch. 

"What happened to the enhanced senses, wolfboy? I thought you have a built-in early alert system for situations like this?" He hisses, standing on the edge of the faded welcome mat.

"I was a little preoccupied!" He snaps and running a hand over his face. "Oh my god, I can't believe that happened." 

"What, getting caught by my dad or the other stuff?"

Jackson lifts his head up. Clearly, Stiles must be joking. How could there be any doubt after the sounds he made? But the tinge of apprehension on his unnaturally blank face is real. He huffs and pulls Stiles forward by the hips and presses their lips together gently. 

"Of course, getting caught by your Dad." He rumbles pleasantly. "The other stuff was unexpected but good."

"Just good?" 

"You're insufferable." Jackson sighs.

"Yeah." Stiles grins slyly, pressing their lips together again. 

Their kisses are sweeter this time. The simmering want is still there but overshadowed by the warmth of each other's bodies. Their lips fumble around smiles and hums of laughter. They only separate when the porch light begins to flicker. The tips of Stiles' ears go red with embarrassment and Jackson can feel the same heat crawling down his neck. If someone told him eight months ago that he would: break up with Lydia, start to make friends with the invisible nobodies at school, and fall for Stiles Stilinski--he would have broken their nose. 

Jackson used to hate change. He needed everything to be just so, completely controllable and predictable. That luxury does not exist anymore. Now, his universe if more like water, constantly shifting and changing. Sometimes the waves are choppy and dangerous, other times clear and still. It's terrifying but he feels like he's lived more in the last few months than he has in while. 

Stiles steals one last kiss before stumbling back into the house. Jackson steps off the porch, basking in the lingering haze of their combined scents. He feels suddenly energized, the wolf howls happily under his skin. 

Tonight seems like a good night for a swim. 


End file.
